Break me Down
by UnstableIntention
Summary: Years after the fire that killed his family, a damaged Derek Hale returns unprepared to survive in a world without pack. Captured and tossed into the fighting pits, he all but loses his humanity in a bid to survive. When a raid finally offers him the chance to escape he takes it, setting out on a collision course for a town called Beacon Hills and a certain sheriff's son.
1. Chapter 1

The pits.

In a way he'd come to love them and maybe that was the real crime.

Because there he could smash, and bash, and sink his teeth into something that gave under his jaws and squalled and screamed and _bled_. There, he could slice and shred and tear his opponent to literal pieces all while the crowd cheered him on. And the more brutal he became, the more fights he won, the louder they cheered.

Not that that mattered to him.

It wasn't about the clamor of the mob, or his status as the greatest fighter on the circuit, wasn't about the thousands of dollars that he brought in for the men that fought him. He didn't see any of it anyways. He was still staked out on the same chain in the same steel kennel every night, come rain or shine.

No, for him it was all about the fight, about giving and taking as much pain as possible because it was pain that cut through the anger.

He'd almost lost the first time; beaten, drugged, confused, and tossed in against a massive cur that was covered in scars and strapped with muscle. He'd barely managed to escape with his life, but he was a fast learner and fighting gave him an outlet. He'd come back to society because he felt ready, thought he finally had control of the anger that had consumed him after the fire, but he'd been horribly, horribly wrong. For months after his capture he had railed and raged against the bars that confined him, against the hands of the men that wrapped chains around his neck and dragged him to and from the ring, clubbed him and whipped him and drove him half to madness… until one day he stopped.

After that, fighting quickly became his salvation. He didn't remember when, or why, or if he even really _did _give up, but from then on he _let_ himself be dragged, clubbed, whipped, anything they wanted until he got thrown down into the dirt with an opponent and then there was no controlling him at all. The hot ball of fury he tamped down so hard would take him over and he saw red, ripping and tearing and slashing at anything in his path, unleashing the bottled up wrath of years on whatever sorry bastard had been tossed in with him.

They'd fought him against dogs at first, for a long time. Made him wonder if they even knew what he was. But of course they did. _Somehow_… they knew. They were smart enough to keep him drugged with a mild dose of mistletoe, a plant that worked much like wolfsbane and kept him locked inside his wolf form, so of course they knew. And he guessed that in the end it didn't matter how, or why. He had been immature, long and lanky with youth when he'd been captured, only just re-emerged into the world after hiding away in isolation for years after the fire that had destroyed his entire family. It had taken a good year before the vicious training and constant fights had turned him into what he was today – a powerhouse of experienced muscle, a ruthless killing machine whose control balanced on a hair-trigger.

And so slowly he slowly grew in size and in savagery, his fights becoming more and more brutal, the masses demanding greater and greater stakes; multiple opponents, wild animals, once or twice another werewolf, usually older, knotted and scarred from years of like treatment, driven almost mad from the constant exposure to the mistletoe which burned through their veins and made their bodies ache.

Still, it made no difference.

Sure, some fights were harder than others, like the time they sicced a whole pack of skinny lion hounds on him at once, or the time they brought in a small black bear they'd gotten from a zoo that had shut down. On those days he had to be carried out of the pits, collapsing under the weight of his injuries to the tune of the victory bells. On those days, he was lucky he healed fairly fast. Broken bones, deep lacerations that cut through layers of muscle, sweeping gashes that threatened to disembowel…

He welcomed the pain. Agony was a language he understood.

And in the end, it made no difference.

In the end, they all died the same way.

With his teeth in their throats.

Tonight wouldn't be any different.

It was almost his turn. He could feel it. From his cramped steel cage at the back of the warehouse he could hear the snaps and snarls of whichever beast preceded him into the arena, smell the blood, feel the pounding of feet vibrating up through the dirt floor as the crowd stamped and shouted, called encouragement and placed their final bets. It would only last a few minutes – the new ones never lasted long – and then it would be over, with a hiss and a death rattle from a broken throat.

A gentle clink drew his attention; a figure looming out of the dim and dirt, brandishing a baseball bat and a length of chain. He felt his hackles rise and he growled low in his throat; mostly just for the show of it. He had long ago given up the battle against the men who owned him, given up rebelling against the clubs and the modified, electric cattle-prods. The door of his crate swung open with a rusty creak and he held deathly still, hardly daring to breathe as hands reached in, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him out, looping the links of steel around his muzzle and behind his ears and twisting tight. The chain bit into him but he didn't show his teeth, didn't balk when the man who smelled like sweat and stale beer began to walk him into the center room, just got to his feet and trotted lightly at his side, keeping up his low warning growl as they went.

A warning growl that went entirely ignored.

The man pulled him swiftly down the tight, narrow corridor that cut through the throngs of people crowded around the makeshift pit, and he was quick to jump over the cheap, particle board wall before he could be thrown over it. Faces swam all around him, shouting, brandishing money and betting slips, a cacophony of sound and movement. A bare, dirty bulb swung lazily above his head, casting shadows in every direction. Once the noise had distracted him and made his sensitive ears ring, but now he tuned it out, the din fading away until all he could hear was the wild thunder of his own heartbeat, the harsh in and out of his breathing. The anger came over him hard and fast, boiled and bubbled up, setting his blood alight with adrenaline, his body flush with power. Widening his stance he clawed at the earth, ducked his head and snarled, spit dripping down gleaming canines.

Across the pit, two massive Rottweilers were thrown over the wall; huge, muscular males that stood almost as tall as he did. A quick sniff and a preliminary glance told him that these were brothers, raised and trained together, and he knew he was in for a good battle tonight. They would move in perfect synchronicity, hit him from both sides and protect each other's weaknesses, and with a bite force that came closer to rivalling his than most of his previous adversaries, they would serve well in putting him through his paces. Straining against the chain that held him in his corner, he put every ounce of rage and hatred that he had into a bone-chilling roar. Several spectators fell back from the edges of the pit, but the dogs only whined and lunged, throwing their weight hard at the end of their restraints.

He felt hands around his neck gripping the chains close, ready to throw them off, and then the bell clanged and he was free.

Leaping forward he barreled towards the larger of the two dogs, using his broad chest to slam into it and knock it off its feet, but before he could drive in for its throat the second was on him, throwing a leg over his back as it clamped down hard on the base of his neck. Bucking his powerful shoulders, he threw it off and rushed it before it could regain its balance, ripping a long, curving gash over its ribs. He felt one of his ears tear as the first dog came at him again, and he snarled at the tang of his own blood hitting the air. Spinning around, he ducked low and came in hard, just getting his teeth on the thick rolls of muscle in the neck. In another fight it would've meant one dog down, but before he could shake his head, before he could lock his jaws and crush the windpipe or break the great, pumping artery in the throat, he felt a vicious pain in his side where the second tore at his soft belly behind his rib cage. Shaking loose he leapt away, getting a bit of space with his back to the wall.

Above the fight men screamed and shoved, faces twisted, mouths gaping as they cursed and jostled for a better view, but he didn't spare them a second's attention. He had all he could deal with right in front of him, hitting him left and right like freight trains as they tried to tear him apart, opening wounds wet and red and raw on his hide. He didn't give a thought to losing, he never did, not that it wasn't always a very real possibility. This fight was hard and fast and fierce, and it was close, oh so close. Just the way he liked it, quite literally battling for his life. He thought the tide might turn when he got hold of the smaller dog's throat, bit hard and tasted a burst of coppery blood on his tongue, but just as he reared back with a vicious, twisting thrash he felt teeth on his foreleg, powerful jaws crushing, grinding down until the bone snapped and he turned with a sharp cry, slashing at the Rottweiler's eyes and face until it let go and fell back.

Staggering away to the back of the ring, he heaved and gasped for air, his brain a whirling fog of pain and fury. His eyes burned blue, his fangs lengthened, his claws sharpening as he dug them into the earth. To his left the smaller of the two dogs lay gurgling and kicking in the dirt, not long for the world, but his bigger problem was stalking towards him, slowly, steadily. He pulled his lips back hard in a wrinkled mask of hatred, showing dripping white canines as he let out a horrific, spine-tingling snarl, but it did nothing to stop the dog's advance. His mangled leg hung at an awkward angle, blood soaked his fur where it poured from his many wounds and ran down the side of his face from the tattered remains of his ear, and still he stood, strong, defiant, and angry. What was about to come would be violent, fast, and agonizing, and he snapped his teeth, bracing himself for the pain.

His vision flashed and he saw his opponent, as if in slow motion, gather itself, saw its hind legs curl, ready to spring, and then the world exploded.

Warning bells rang out and in an instant chaos reigned, the people crowded around the pit scattering like roaches. He flinched, hunched low as he sought out the source of the panic, his eyes searching. Above the shouting, above the pounding feet and jostling, the barking and the clang of kennels and chains he could hear sirens, hear the slamming of car doors, the _schlock _of cartridges being pumped into rifle chambers. Someone tripped over the low wooden wall and into the ring, looped a leather strap around the neck of the startled Rottweiler and began to drag it away, and in the commotion, above the cacophony, something in him jumped. Snapping his head from side to side, his enhanced eyesight quickly found a clear path between all the running, between all the boots and ratty sneakers kicking up furrows in the dust. There, on the other side of the warehouse, sunlight pouring through a hole punched in the bottom of the corrugated metal wall.

He froze.

This was his chance, his first and probably only chance and he froze.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, a thousand fears, and none of them mattered. It didn't matter that he didn't know what was out there. Didn't matter that he knew nothing about the world outside of the pits, knew nothing about the law. All he knew was that this was his chance.

Lunging forward, he leapt the wall with one smooth, easy bound, staggering on his bad leg when he landed on the other side. Ignoring the hot, vicious pain the slashed at him when the broken shards of bone grated together he bolted madly for the opening, lowering his shoulder and crashing through the narrow space. For a minute he was blinded, the late afternoon sunlight cutting at him as he lost his footing and went careening nose over tail down a steep incline, landing hard on bruised ribs in refuse-filled ditch. Dazed and aching, he lay as still as he could, pressed low in two inches of cold, filthy water as he tried to catch his breath, shouts and sirens blaring overhead.

Finally, with a low snarl of pain, he dragged himself shakily to his feet and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

"No! We're never gonna quit, aint nothin' wrong with it, just actin' like we're animals!"

'Stiles' Stilinski's shitty blue jeep flew down the road, pushing the limits of speed that either could handle. It was getting dark and rain had started to fall but he kept the windows down anyways, enjoying the way the cool, damp air curled around his throat where the collar of his leather jacket was open over his bright red hoodie. He had Nickelback pounding on the stereo and his long, slim fingers tapped out the beat against the steering wheel, his left knee keeping time as he pressed down harder on the accelerator.

"No, no matter where we go, cause everybody knows, we're just a couple animals!"

Taking a curve just a little too fast, he had to lurch forward to catch the black duffel bag that threatened to go sliding off the passenger seat and spill paint cans all over the floor. Curfew was coming on fast and he knew he wasn't going to make it, but hey, if he got pulled over he wasn't getting a ticket. And it sure as hell wasn't _his_ fault that he had to drive six miles outside of Beacon Hills to express himself nowadays, now that every cop on the force knew his tag.

"So come on baby, get in! Get in, just get in! Check out the trouble we're in!"

Speaking of trouble…

Stiles rubbed his fingers together against his thumb. Shit.

He had Pacific Ice blue all over himself, trickles running up his wrist and disappearing into the cuff of his jacket. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed he had a streak along his jaw too. Have to get rid of that before the inevitable, half-hearted interrogation. There was a can of gas in the back of the garage that they used to fill the mower – that should work. He'd forgotten to pick up some thinner when he'd stopped at a hardware store to get a sack full of spray bombs. An _out_-_of_-_town_ hardware store.

Stiles knew that graffiti was 'wrong,' more specifically that it was defacement of public property. Growing up with a sheriff for a dad meant always being hyper-aware of all the little laws you were breaking. But he'd found that he had a knack for creating large, colorful artscapes when it was on the side of a building, and it was a good way to fill his spare time. Not to mention it let him get out some of his more destructive tendencies without doing anything too… violent.

And he did have violent tendencies.

After his mom had died nightmares had begun to consume him, sudden urges to scream, shatter glass, or pound his fists bloody becoming a constant companion. Panic attacks too became a daily routine, mini freak-outs breaking him down in the middle of class, and as young people were wont to do his peers were spiteful and vindictive about it, teasing, heckling, jeering, physically violent when no one was looking and verbally abusive all the rest of the time. His best friend Scott had stood by him and still did, taking more than one black eye in the process, but over the years Stiles had continued to withdraw. His father was a good man, but still caught in the quagmire of his own grief, and didn't know what to do to help his fucked-up teenage son. In a meager effort to appease him Stiles had joined the lacrosse team his freshman year, but when a hazing session in the locker room went bad and Stiles had a full-blown break down in the showers, it was the beginning of the end for him.

In the face of his classmates' cruelty he became cold, sullen, hardening himself in an effort to avoid the harassment and humiliation. Closing himself off from anyone and everyone, he traded out his brightly colored layers for heavy boots and a zippered leather jacket, grew his thick brown hair out to a tousled, 'just-been-sexed' wave, and started cutting class to smoke on the bleachers out by the field. His teachers, his coach, even the guidance counselor all came after him with concerns for his new attitude, but he was smart enough to run straight A's despite the occasional absence, and so there wasn't a lot they could do. His dad too was worried; tried to talk, made stilted, awkward efforts to draw his son back out, but Stiles was having none of it. He'd created a new persona for himself, found a face that wasn't weak, that didn't have crippling anxiety or suffocating nightmares, and he had no intention of looking back.

And so slowly his dad gave up. Or at least that's what it felt like. And it hurt them both, despite everything. The Sheriff had been badly broken by the loss of his wife, and his son's apparent rejection got withdrawal in return. The man just didn't know how to support the bitter, angry teenager, and so, unable to share their pain, they hid from each other. Still, desperate to connect, longing to repair the broken relationship between himself and his father even though he didn't know it, Stiles began to act out in new ways; breaking windows, speeding, skipping out on his curfew, and his current favorite pastime – spray bombing bridges, abandoned buildings, and the old water tower up on Beacon Point.

Not that it mattered.

Every deputy on the force knew that the Stilinski's were falling apart.

The muscle in Stiles' jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth, reaching over to crank his stereo even higher.

"You're beside me on the seat, got your hand between my knees, and you control how fast we go by just how hard you wanna… FUCK!"

Stiles' seatbelt bit into his shoulder as he slammed hard on the brake, his jeep fishtailing wildly on the rain-slicked asphalt. The thick trees on either side of the street blurred in the dizzying sweep of his headlights and his heart leapt into his throat as he grabbed at the wheel, trying desperately to keep the car straight as it careened wildly towards the wide, black shadow that had emerged from the darkness like a wraith. The rules drummed into his head since he'd first learned to drive at the age of ten kept him pumping the brake, preventing them from locking up; still, the jeep's tires skidded on the wet pavement, the vehicle juddering hard as he stared out the windshield with horror as the shadow grew and twisted in the flash of his high beams – a dog – massive, black, eyes glowing in the rain. Stiles had a moment, a single moment of sheer panic as the jeep continued on its collision course, helpless to do anything but watch as the car swung in a wide arc toward the animal until a heavy thump and a pained, high-pitched yelp ended the violent tailspin and left him hunched over the wheel, his knuckles white, gasping for air.

Stiles fought his seatbelt with cold, shaking fingers, clawing at the latch until it finally released and he practically fell out the jeep's door to the pavement, the rain hammering down and immediately soaking his hair, running like ice down the back of his neck beneath the collar of his jacket. Jerking his hood up over his head, he ran around the back end of the jeep into the center of the road, saw the heavy dent and thin streak of red trickling down the bumper. With fear and guilt spiking in his throat, he turned to the large, dark lump lying motionless ten yards off, approached carefully with his heart in his throat.

It was a dog.

At least, he thought it was a dog.

Because it was huge. Massive. Flat on its side it looked almost as long as he was, and if he didn't know that there weren't any wolves in Beacon Hills he might not have gone any closer. He could just see its chest rising and falling, see its broad ribs expand in shallow pants and knew it was still alive, so dog, wolf, whatever, it was hurt. He knew how stupid it was to poke at a wounded animal, but there was no way he could leave it. For the space of a second he debated calling his dad, but that was never a good idea these days, and so instead he grabbed on to his control, fought the tightness in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time and ran back to the jeep. After backing it up carefully, he leapt out and dropped the tailgate, pushing and shoving at the random junk until he'd cleared the floor, spreading out an old Lacrosse bleacher blanket over the bare metal.

"All right buddy," he murmured quietly as he turned back to the dog, which hadn't made even the smallest effort to move or get away, "This is gonna hurt. Just… don't go all Cujo on me ok?"

Reaching out a tentative hand, he placed it lightly on the dog's shoulder, stroked once down its side. The animal's eyes were closed but it had lifted its lip under Stiles' touch, showing off one long, sharp canine, and he fought not to let his fear show. Animals could smell it, and he hoped a steady, soothing tone of voice might override what was no doubt a serious stink coming off him right now.

"Gonna get you some help ok? Gonna get you all fixed up."

Moving around behind the dog, he ran his hand down its side once more before slipping his arms beneath its ribs and its back legs, breathing out to steady himself. The thing looked like it could weigh as much as he did, but he'd started lifting weights during practice last year, and he could feel adrenaline burning in his veins. Gritting his teeth, he shifted his grip and heaved, unable to be overly gentle because the dog was just as heavy as he thought it would be, possibly even more so. He winced as it made a pained, high-pitched whining sound, but it was the tickling sort of cough at the back of it that made him afraid, conjured up thoughts of punctured lungs and throats full of blood.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles muttered miserably. "Almost, just…"

And then he was in the back of the jeep, cramped painfully alongside a pile of workout clothes, filthy trainers and his lacrosse stick, a couple of empty Gatorade bottles. The dog whimpered again as Stiles laid him down, his eyes still tightly shut, and he could see now that there was a deep, heavy gash on its abdomen, bloody and ragged, one of its forelegs flopping uselessly at a horrible angle. Stiles touched the thick ruff of fur around its neck with shaking fingers, murmured another apology before carefully closing up the back and diving for the driver's seat.

He didn't remember driving to the clinic. Didn't remember the sharp curve at the corner of 3rd and Talbert, didn't remember the sign that welcomed him to Beacon Hills, didn't remember... All he could hear was the shallow panting, the occasional wounded keening sound that came from behind the back seat whenever he hit a bump or swung a corner too hard. He tried to keep up a steady stream of reassurances but they were tainted with apologies, his own guilt and shock coloring his voice. He must have blown a good number of stop signs on his way through town because the next thing he knew he was pulling into the little parking lot with a screech of tires, his heart sinking into his stomach at the sight of the darkened windows. Jerking his keys from the ignition he ran to the front door and began pounding his fists against the wood.

"Dr. Deaton? Dr. Deaton!"

Another minute of pounding and shouting his throat hoarse had light blooming behind the glass, the vet appearing in the window with concern on his face.

"Mr. Stilinski? What…"

"Oh thank god!" Stiles breathed, grabbing the man's wrist and dragging him towards the jeep. "I hit a dog!"

* * *

**Lyrics are from 'Animal' and belong to Nickelback. Reviews Please (:**


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Stiles chanted as he dragged the vet towards the back of his jeep. "It came out of nowhere, I didn't see it I swear! It's really bad, he's bleeding and he can't breathe and his leg's all…"

"Mr. Stilinski!" Deaton said firmly, grabbing Stiles by the shoulders and giving him a little shake. "You need to calm down right now."

Stiles nodded, breathed hard through his nose and tried to count, pushing down the first panic attack he'd felt coming on in years. There was a knot in his throat that he couldn't swallow down and his fingers were shaking, so he wrapped them hard around the tailgate of his jeep, gripping the cold, wet metal until his knuckles turned white. From the corner of his eye he could see Deaton ducking sideways to take in his dented bumper, the splash of red that the rain hadn't been able to wash away. His stomach lurched hard and he tried to tighten his rip even more but his fingers slipped, getting pinched beneath the handle as he dropped the hatch.

Deaton's fingers closed hard around his bicep and jerked him back roughly, and any other time Stiles would have thrown him off, snapped or cursed, but the biting pressure was almost a comfort in that moment, at least until he turned to face the vet who was staring into the back of his jeep with a look almost like fear on his typically closed-off face. He was shifting carefully forward, keeping his hand around Stiles' arm and pushing him back and away from the dog that lay panting and bloody in his trunk, pink tongue flicking out between sharp white teeth to curl over its nose again and again in a motion Stiles recognized as one of self-soothing. It made a pained attempt to lift its head and he could have sworn that its eyes burned an electric, fluorescent blue, Pacific Ice blue. It was… arresting, in a way a dog's gaze shouldn't be, and for just a second it stared straight at him and his whole body went cold before the animal's head dropped heavily back to the floor and it huffed the most pathetic, hurt sort of sound he'd ever heard in his life, its entire body shaking with the effort.

"I don't… I don't know where I hit him, I…" Stiles stammered, his words coming out fast and jumbled in that way they did on those rare occasions that his iron-clad control on his emotions slipped. "His leg, his… I think his lungs. There was blood in his mouth…"

"Were you bitten?"

Stiles jerked at the harsh, abrupt question, the vet's face flat and stony once again as his eyes darted over the animal's form, no doubt taking stock of each injury, no doubt more of them than Stiles could see.

"What?" he muttered, his brain taking a second to catch up with the question. "What… n, no. No he didn't… I mean he showed his teeth a little but I think he's just scared. He didn't try to…"

"All right."

The vet seemed satisfied with the answer and moved forward towards the dog's head, murmuring low, quiet words that Stiles couldn't hear but he thought Deaton must just be trying to reassure it, soothe it.

"We need to get him inside," he said, this time loud enough that he knew he was the one being talked to. "Take the edge of the blanket, gently now."

Stiles gripped on tight to the lacrosse quilt, lifted, and it was infinitely easier getting the dog out of the car with another person's help that it was getting him in alone. Deaton was at the dog's head, continuing with his stream of low reassurances as he walked backward into the darkened office, pushing through the wooden gate behind the counter and into the back, using his shoulder to click on the lights in the cold, white surgery. The dog emitted a high-pitch whine from where he hung in the sling of the blanket, his injured leg pressed tight against his chest as they jostled him up onto the steel surgical table as easily as they could. It barely moved when they let go, flat out on its side as its chest shuddered up and down with ragged breaths, and Stiles felt his stomach roll at the sight of the deep, jagged gashes on its abdomen, layers of muscle and tendon showing pink and white and ragged beneath the blood.

Deaton was quickly and efficiently gathering equipment onto a rolling tray and snapping on a pair of latex gloves as Stiles backed shakily away, attempting to control his breathing. The vet's low, steady voice should have been soothing as he clicked on an overhead lamp, shining viciously down on the filthy, matted black fur and shaking limbs, but instead it just confused him, made him even more anxious as when spoke to the dog as though it were a person, explaining what was happening step by step, and for just a minute Stiles thought it was him being spoken to. He didn't know what to do with himself, how to help, and so he simply did his best to keep out of the way as Deaton turned on a pair of clippers, shaving thick black fur away from the edges of the deep wound in the dog's abdomen.

Stiles' hands shook as he dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket, tapped out a single, slim cylinder and stuck it between his lips. It was automatic; he didn't think about where he was, who was watching him as he lifted his lighter, only needed the calming rush of nicotine that he'd learned to use as a tool, a habit that occupied his fingers and helped him stave off the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Don't light that in here."

Stiles almost snarled at the firm but quiet command that came from the vet, who hadn't even looked up from where he leaned over the dog to deliver it.

"Oxygen tanks," he explained, nodding towards the steel canisters near the wall. "Rubbing alcohol. Take it outside."

Not judging then. Not scolding.

"Sorry."

Snapping the lighter shut, he stuffed it back in his pocket and stuck the cigarette behind his ear. "I just… Jesus!" He shuddered out a breath and rubbed his hands hard over his face.

"Relax Mr. Stilinski," the vet murmured, setting aside a bottle of saline solution and calmly threading a needle. "You're taking it worse than he is."

"How do you figure?" Stiles asked miserably, gesturing to the battered and bleeding animal sprawled across the operating table. "Look at him!"

Deaton chose that moment to tug gently on his thread and pull the tattered remains of the animal's ear back into place. Stiles' stomach rolled violently.

"Oh god!"

"He'll be all right," Dr. Deaton stated calmly, knotting his thread and snipping off the excess, moving on to the deep wound on the dog's soft belly. "His leg will need to be splinted for a few days, and he's badly dehydrated. Some good food and rest and he'll be back in shape in no time."

Stiles wasn't oblivious to the grim frown that passed briefly over the vet's face as he glanced up towards the animal's head, its tongue once again running out over its nose again and again in an attempt to combat the stress it was under. Stepping in close to the table, he reached up hesitantly before dropping his hand down onto the dog's shoulder, just barely ruffling its thick fur.

"Shouldn't you give him some pain killers?" he asked in a choked voice as he felt it flinch beneath his feather-light touch. "Anesthetic or something?"

"In normal circumstances, perhaps," Deaton replied, his dark eyes tracking Stiles' hand as it stroked lightly down the dog's side instead of watching his own fingers as he deftly closed the gash with neat black sutures. "In this case… anesthetizing an animal that's already in shock can cause some… extremely adverse effects."

"Like what?" he asked, not because he was especially curious, but because when he was nervous he sought information.

"Death."

Stiles swallowed hard and closed his eyes, his fingers curling in the dog's heavy black rough. He opened them again in time to see Deaton lay a heavy orange swipe of iodine down over the long line of stitches before pasting a strip of clean, dry cotton over the whole thing. He felt an immense sense of relief once the open layers of skin and muscle were out of sight, and felt his cheeks flush when a shaky sigh escaped him. Deaton didn't seem to notice, however, instead taking hold of the rolling table and maneuvering it carefully into the small side room where the x-ray machine was kept. Stiles watched through the window as he stretched the dog's foreleg out carefully, draping the heavy lead apron over its body. He could hear him speaking to it quietly, explaining what he was doing before adjusting the arm of the machine and donning his own apron, dropping on a pair of thick safety goggles and taking the toggle in hand, rapidly clicking out a set of three images. Stiles stepped up to help remove the apron from the dog's shoulders and roll the surgical table back out into the surgery while Deaton collected the images, snapping them into the light box and crossing his arms as he stared intently at the crumbly mess of bone that glowed an eerie blue-white against the darker background.

"How bad is it?" Stiles asked, stepping in close to his side and trying to interpret the curves and lines in front of him.

"It's not good," the vet stated flatly, pointing to the middle of the dog's leg with an ink pen. "You see this here? All these dark lines?"

Stiles nodded before following Deaton back to the dog's side, where the man began to gather the supplies he would need to fashion a splint.

"You've got yourself a bum leg my friend," he said, talking to the dog again before turning his attention back to Stiles again. "He's got quite a mess of hairline fractures in there," he explained. "The bone was crushed."

"Crushed?" Stiles choked. "But I didn't… I mean, I know I hit him, but I didn't go over him, I swear…"

"Relax, Mr. Stilinski, please," Deaton intoned. "Your jeep's not the culprit, I assure you."

"What are you talking about?" he asked dully, unable to understand how such might be the case.

"Well, going by his condition alone, I'd say he's been fought."

"Fought?"

"Yes. Your jeep can't have done this type of damage Stiles. I doubt you did anything more than bump him off his feet. No, these?" He pointed to the dog's tattered ear and bandaged side. "These are fighting wounds."

"Wait," Stiles said in disbelief, "You're telling me… that there's _illegal_ dog-fighting going on… in _Beacon Hills_."

Deaton's mouth twisted in a small, grim sort of smirk. "Something like that," he muttered. "You see this type of thing often enough in… dog's that come out of the ring. Bite wounds, broken bones, starvation, dehydration…"

The dog emitted a sharp, high-pitched whine as the vet took its leg in his hands, strapping it into a splint that reached from its elbow down to its ankle. Finishing with the Velcro straps, he touched it lightly on the shoulder, frowned.

"I'm sorry, my friend," he murmured. "But you'll be good as knew soon enough."

"He will?"

Deaton jumped a bit, as though he'd somehow forgotten that Stiles was there, and it took a moment for him to respond, as though he were considering his response.

"I believe so, yes. It will take… a while. But he should recover well enough."

Stiles nodded, his throat dry, and spent the next few minutes stroking the dog's spine as Deaton began collecting his things, throwing out bloody gauze and gathering tools to be sterilized. He seemed to be keeping a close eye on Stiles, as though he were afraid that he might be too rough and hurt the dog, or that it might suddenly break and take a snap at his fingers, but it simply lay on its side breathing heavily, running a long, pink tongue over its nose.

"I'm sorry," Stiles murmured, and the dog's tattered ear flicked faintly, one eye cracking open and rolling back to stare at him, a deep sort of crystal blue that was strange to see in a dog's face, but not near the glowing brilliancy he thought he'd glimpsed from the back of his jeep.

The dog stared at him for a moment, quiet and strangely intent before it huffed a weary sort of sigh and dropped its head back to the table. Deaton appeared at his side then, a frown in his normally stoic face, before he grabbed the edge of the table and began wheeling it into the back where the animals were housed. Stiles followed on his heels, all the way to the end past the small steel cages where the cats and the terriers were kept to the larger kennels divided by brick walls and gated by chain link fencing. They moved all the way to the last kennel even though only the first two were occupied, and Stiles was quick to dart forward and open the door, stepping carefully over the thin wool pad and grabbing on to the end of the lacrosse quilt before carefully lowering the dog down onto the bedding. The vet watched closely as he climbed out again over top of the animal, but its eyelids didn't even flicker. It just lay there, limp in the middle of the quilt, and if its chest weren't rising and falling with labored breaths Stiles would have been sure it was dead.

"You're sure he'll be ok?" he asked jerkily, gripping at the elbows of his jacket as Deaton closed the kennel door silently, sliding the latch him.

"I believe so," Deaton replied in his characteristic tone, giving nothing away. "Eventually."

Stiles gaze jerked toward him, confused by the addition, concerned.

"What…"

"Mr. Stilinski, I think it's time you went along home," the vet said flatly. "He'll be fine for tonight, and you both need some sleep."

Stiles swallowed against the sudden, bone-deep weariness the came down over him like a heavy winter coat, thick and warm and stifling and he nodded.

"Yeah," he muttered around a thick tongue. "Yeah, I should… I'll come back tomorrow. If that's… I mean if that's cool."

"The clinic's open until seven," Deaton stated simply.

Stiles only nodded, took one last look at the dog lying still and quiet in the kennel, and headed for his jeep.


End file.
